The Mobile peddler
12:20 AM, Mar. 23, 2012 |
Through the eyes of a 12-year-old boy, the life of the Mobile, Ala., peddler is pure magic. They've served me well for almost a lifetime.
In 1943, Mobile's shipyards were teeming with thousands of people from the South. My family, the peddlers, was part of this migration.
Doug and I worked the peddling business with dad, Reese, and grandfather, Stock. We sold anything that was worth selling, including an occasional dog. Wood was our hottest item since it was the fuel of choice.
Each day we passed a park-like meadow of large oaks with mossy beards almost touching the ground. For the past week the topic of conversation was the strange people who set up camp in the meadow.
You see, my dad was anxious to sell the folks our stuff, but Grandpa Stock always said, "No Reese, they ain't right and they ain't our kind."
This particular morning we were driving past the little squatter community when a man wearing red britches, a yellow overcoat and a brown derby waved us down.
It was instantaneous lightning; the flying man in the red britches was riding the running board, telling my dad his name was Romeo Besnik, ruler of the roost and the keeper of the money bags. Reese jammed the brakes, slamming Besnik's head against the truck door, but it didn't addle or phase the old coot.
Stock told Reese to gun Old Hitler, our '37 Chevy truck, but Mr. Besnik already had convinced Reese he was the main man and it was a great opportunity for selling the entire load at a nice profit.
Stock asked Reese to back down into the meadow assuring us good leverage if needed, but dad paid no heed. He drove the truck straight into the waiting crowd who was now waving dollar bills. Immediately three young attractive Gypsy girls appeared and started bartering Reese and Stock for the vegetables and fruit.
With Reese and Stock busy bartering the young girls, the Gypsies stormed Old Hitler and began to take our load. Doug and I, attempting to save ourselves, climbed on top the cab. Dad finally realized what was happening but it was too late. He screamed for Stock to get in the truck, which he did minus his shirt.
Dad u-turned our truck right through the camp grounds of the meadow with Gypsies, pots, pans and canvas tents flying. I can still see them skittering out of the path of Old Hitler. Three miles later we thanked God and took inventory of our well-being, and we were fine, but the load, it was all gone with the exception of a few small melons and several bundles of turnip greens.
The Gypsies left soon afterwards, yet the meadow was never the same. For Doug and me, the mossy oaks became little thieves all wearing red britches and derby hats.
My daddy never mentioned the fiasco, but Grandpa Stock, he always gave Reese a knowing look that said it all, "Reese they ain't right and they ain't our kind."
In 1943, Mobile's shipyards were teeming with thousands of people from the South. My family, the peddlers, was part of this migration.
Doug and I worked the peddling business with dad, Reese, and grandfather, Stock. We sold anything that was worth selling, including an occasional dog. Wood was our hottest item since it was the fuel of choice.
Each day we passed a park-like meadow of large oaks with mossy beards almost touching the ground. For the past week the topic of conversation was the strange people who set up camp in the meadow.
You see, my dad was anxious to sell the folks our stuff, but Grandpa Stock always said, "No Reese, they ain't right and they ain't our kind."
This particular morning we were driving past the little squatter community when a man wearing red britches, a yellow overcoat and a brown derby waved us down.
It was instantaneous lightning; the flying man in the red britches was riding the running board, telling my dad his name was Romeo Besnik, ruler of the roost and the keeper of the money bags. Reese jammed the brakes, slamming Besnik's head against the truck door, but it didn't addle or phase the old coot.
Stock told Reese to gun Old Hitler, our '37 Chevy truck, but Mr. Besnik already had convinced Reese he was the main man and it was a great opportunity for selling the entire load at a nice profit.
Stock asked Reese to back down into the meadow assuring us good leverage if needed, but dad paid no heed. He drove the truck straight into the waiting crowd who was now waving dollar bills. Immediately three young attractive Gypsy girls appeared and started bartering Reese and Stock for the vegetables and fruit.
With Reese and Stock busy bartering the young girls, the Gypsies stormed Old Hitler and began to take our load. Doug and I, attempting to save ourselves, climbed on top the cab. Dad finally realized what was happening but it was too late. He screamed for Stock to get in the truck, which he did minus his shirt.
Dad u-turned our truck right through the camp grounds of the meadow with Gypsies, pots, pans and canvas tents flying. I can still see them skittering out of the path of Old Hitler. Three miles later we thanked God and took inventory of our well-being, and we were fine, but the load, it was all gone with the exception of a few small melons and several bundles of turnip greens.
The Gypsies left soon afterwards, yet the meadow was never the same. For Doug and me, the mossy oaks became little thieves all wearing red britches and derby hats.
My daddy never mentioned the fiasco, but Grandpa Stock, he always gave Reese a knowing look that said it all, "Reese they ain't right and they ain't our kind."
Jack Knight is a retired Los Angeles City Schools mathematics and computer science teacher. Reach him at knight3230@att.com.
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